


Two Masters

by seekwill



Series: Provenance [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dubious Consent, He/Him Pronouns For Gabriel (Good Omens), Knife Mention, No verbal consent, Other, POV Gabriel (Good Omens), Physical Threat, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), cops and robbers, gun mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:14:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill
Summary: With a violent efficiency, he grabbed their shoulders and flipped them onto their back. They landed in the empty space in the bed next to where he had been sleeping. He could hear the air rush out of them and saw the surprise in their light blue eyes as he pinned them down. His leg crossed theirs to hold them in place and the wince that crossed their face was unpracticed and true. He looked down at them and swallowed. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might crack his chest open."So,” Beelzebub started, breathless and grimacing. “Not happy to see me then?”In the aftermath of his first intimate encounter with Beelzebub Prince, Detective Gabriel Bote struggles to move forward, each night plagued with the new and terrifying knowledge his body holds.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens)
Series: Provenance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817818
Comments: 28
Kudos: 71





	Two Masters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melibe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melibe/gifts).



> For Melibe, whom I am lucky to know.
> 
> Beta'd by the incomparable summerofspock.
> 
> CW: mention of vomit.

Gabriel Bote did not move. 

After Beelzebub Prince dropped from his window and disappeared into thin air, he lay in bed, heartbeat furiously pounding in his ears, staring out into the grey night sky. He did not sleep that night, and he did not go to work the next day.

He knew his colleagues would think he was wounded from the loss at court. They’d talk about him, whisper amongst themselves about how he was a waste of a salary, an empty suit that couldn’t deliver the one thing he was brought on board to deliver. They could talk. He hoped they’d talk.

Because the more they talked the further they’d get from the impossible truth: that Beelzebub Prince had come through his window, and spoken to him. The criminal mastermind he had spent the majority of his career studying and tracking and trying to put behind bars came to him, taunted him, and he had  _ fucked them on the floor of his living room _ . 

He had held them, pushed himself inside them, touched parts of them he should not have touched. He remembered every second of their encounter, from their dramatic reveal, silhouetted by streetlights, to the flash of their eyes as they called him  _ lover _ . The smell of their hair, the sound of their wailing. How wet and open they had felt. How ready.

He had asked Beelzebub if they wanted it and they had shaken their head and he had called them a liar. He had kissed them and tasted the startled groan on their lips. As the night crept on, every flash of hesitation and reticence from them grew and amplified in his mind.  _ What, _ he asked himself,  _ have I done? _

Beelzebub Prince had looked down on him and accused him of loving them. With a horror he did not know was possible to feel, he had realized they were right. This was not what love was supposed to feel like, but it was undeniable. As they stood in front of him, he had been furious and terrified and empty. He wanted them to fill him. He wanted them to stay.

As the sun rose and the traffic picked up on the street below, the hum of the city waking up slowly filled the room until it was a cacophony of morning chatter and rumbling car engines. Gabriel pushed himself up to sitting and ran a hand through his hair. With a dry swallow, he reached out and closed the drawer to his bedside table, left open from the night before. His gun, and Beelzebub’s knife, disappeared from sight.

He approached the open doors to the juliet balcony and stood for a minute, framed between them, looking out onto the street below. He wondered if Beelzebub had watched him through them, and he tried to calculate how they’d gotten in. They would’ve walked past his sleeping form. The more he thought about what had happened, the less any of it made sense. He closed the doors and drew the curtains.

He splashed water on his face in the bathroom, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. Then, with a shaky breath, he tentatively entered the hallway, and looked at the place it had happened.

There was no sign of it. No stain. No marker. There wouldn’t be. But what had happened there felt monumental to him. His heartbeat picked up its treacherous pace with each step he took towards the exact location where he had bent Beelzebub over, and taken them. 

His apartment faced east. He had always been a morning person and this had been a fringe benefit when he’d moved in. The morning sun woke him up each day, warmed him as he made coffee or prepared for a run along the Thames. Sunlight was supposed to sanitize. 

No sunlight, no industrial strength cleaner, nothing short of razing the building to the ground and reducing each brick and beam to ashes could clear this space of the memory of what he had done. He would have to move. 

He would call the leasing agent that afternoon.

Without quite understanding why he did it, Gabriel crouched down and ran his hand over the place in the carpet where Beelzebub had been on their hands and knees. Briefly, the sensation of their slim back against his chest caught his skin on fire and he stood abruptly, hand pressed to his sternum.

He needed to go for a run.

As his feet struck the pavement in a steady if slower than normal rhythm, he felt some of the heavy unease relent, but it did not disperse entirely. At unexpected moments he would be reminded of Beelzebub - in the straight black hair of a woman talking into a cellphone as she passed him, or a display in a shop window of Swiss Army knives. They seemed so close to him, like he could run and run and run and not stop and every time he’d look over his shoulder, they’d be on his heels. For so long it had felt as if he had been chasing after them, and it was strange to feel as if the tables had been turned.

Sweat-slick and breathing heavy, he returned to his apartment. Gabriel shed his running clothes and told himself that he felt better. The run helped. A shower would seal it. He should’ve thought of it sooner. A cold shower could wash away the night before. 

Instead, something about the thrum of water droplets against the tiles had his mind wandering back to his encounter. Moments that he’d briefly forgotten came back to him in full force. He’d put his fingers in their mouth and felt the edge of their teeth. He was intimately aware of how the muscles in their stomach contracted when they came.

With a grimace he shut off the shower and stood dripping in the tub. There was a hideous ache between his legs. To his profound and horrible discomfort, he was growing hard.

“No,” Gabriel said, violently pulling back the shower curtain and reaching for his towel. “No.”

Stepping out onto the bathmat, he saw his face in the mirror.

Bile rushed into his mouth and bracing his elbows on the bathroom counter, he vomited into the sink. He had held Beelzebub down; he had let his anger get the better of him; he had peeled down their clothes and taken their slick cunt without a second thought.  _ And _ , he thought horrified, as he dry heaved,  _ it had felt right.  _

He was sick. Not because he was bent over, spewing the contents of his empty stomach into the bathroom sink, but because above all, he had taken something from them that he hadn’t realized he wanted until it was in his hands. He could never undo it. His body remembered. 

He groaned and tried to push himself up but his elbows shuddered with the effort of it. When he glanced to the mirror again, took in the dark circles under his eyes, the deep frown lines that had etched their way onto his face, he saw a man who he did not know, but who he hated, and with a tsunami like wave of rage, he forced himself to standing, cocked his arm back, and connected his fist with the mirror.

The glass didn’t shatter into a million glittering pieces like he had pictured in the second between making a fist and it meeting the mirror. There was some sort of safety guard in it. It did crack dramatically and distort his image. He looked away from the hideous funhouse version of himself. It hadn’t even properly hurt. The pain would’ve given him something else to think about.

The part of him that had always been practical thought he’d have to call the landlord to get it fixed, that he could find any easy enough excuse to explain it away. He’d do that, then he’d call the leasing agent. Tomorrow. He couldn’t manage it today. He wouldn’t be able to make up some reason as to why the current place wasn’t working anymore.

He would call the leasing agent tomorrow and they would find him a new place to live. There, he would cover the mirrors. Find a way, somehow, to never look at himself again.

At least he wasn’t hard anymore.

It was scarcely past ten in the morning but he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, so he did. Wrapped in the towel, he drew the curtains and collapsed onto the mattress. He drew his knees up to his chest. 

Finally, he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamt of Beelzebub. Fragmented frames of their one kiss coalesced into an all-consuming scene, playing again and again. Their whimper, the way their arms, for mere seconds, had wrapped around his neck like they were drowning, and he was the only one who could save them. He dreamed it on a loop, and woke up panting after the sun had set.

He wanted to go back to sleep, to sink into that seven second memory again. He felt empty of everything but that, and then, the guilt that came with it. Automatically, he stood and walked to the doors of the juliet balcony. He opened them. 

As the streetscape sounds climbed their way through his window, he crawled back into bed. He stared at the open window until he dropped off into sleep again. The dream did not come back to him.

He awoke the next morning, the doors still open, and everything in his apartment the way it had been when he fell asleep. Something heavy laid itself across his chest. He realized it was disappointment.

He had opened the window for them, hoping they would come back.

He did not call the leasing agent that day, nor after that.

* * *

When he went back to work five days later, Gabriel kept his eyes to the ground. He did not engage in small talk, did not join conversations with those he had polite workplace acquaintanceship. Instead, he immersed himself in everything he could find of Beelzebub Prince. Looking for anything out there he didn’t already know.

Over the course of each day he would veer wildly between overwhelming guilt and complete surrender to his desire for them. In one moment, he would be struck with a renewed vigour to get them behind bars, looking through his contacts, searching frantically for connections between their last several jobs, hoping to reveal where they would strike next.

But then, there had been pictures taken of them outside the courthouse at the end of the most recent trial. Had the angle been different, the news photographer might’ve caught Gabriel looming in the background, watching Beelzebub’s back as they walked away. He saved all of those pictures to a flash drive. Mostly because he wanted to memorize each line of their face, imagine what it looked like contorted in pleasure.

In whatever way he framed it, it was an obsession.

It went without saying that he said nothing of his encounter to anyone else. He said little of anything at all, worried that his tone or countenance would give away to his colleagues what he’d done. As if anything more than discussing current cases or responding to requests for expertise would show him to be a man possessed, who could think of nothing but  _ them _ .

As the weeks passed, there were days where he felt he had settled into it, the relentless and low hum of the sick need he felt for them. He would lose hours staring at nothing, replaying all of their interactions, the most recent encounter on high rotation. At night he would watch the open doors of the juliet balcony, and take himself in hand.

On other days Gabriel wondered if his GP would grant his request for a lobotomy, if a talented brain surgeon could remove the part of his brain that held the mountains of information he had collected and learned about Beelzebub Prince. When it was bad, his eye would twitch, his hands shake. He hated himself for loving them.

On one of the days he felt his heart would give out from the effort of living a silent double life, he texted another detective. One who had mentioned in that past that her sister studied art in school and she was single and  _ she’s really smart, really very lovely and maybe she could organize a drink between her and Detective Bote _ ? 

He told himself that he was perseverating on Beelzebub because he had no other distractions. No hobbies other than work and running. He couldn’t sit through a television show anymore. A woman, another warm body, might provide the reset he needed.

It was a fool’s errand. He’d known the second he saw her. His colleague had been right - the sister was well read and intelligent and asked the right questions. She had a pretty smile and seemed normal. He couldn’t have been less interested.

He cut the date short and apologized for not being himself. A lie. It might’ve been true at one point, but it wasn’t anymore. This was who he was now, both salivating and agonizing over a shadow who had only come to him once.

If the woman was crestfallen, she hid it well. All the same, he worried that the already tenuous workplace relationships he had would sink even lower, given his behaviour. He could imagine her calling her sister, asking why she thought this would be a good fit.  _ He didn’t even talk, he could barely look at me. _

Nothing to be done now. He had tried to set himself right, and it wasn’t going to work.

That night, as he had every night for the past two months, he left the doors to the juliet balcony open. It was October now, and in the morning, no matter how many blankets he draped over the bed, he woke cold. Yet, he couldn’t close the doors. On the one night he succeeded in doing so, he'd woken up an hour after falling asleep and opened them again. 

Each night he told himself that it was the last. He would not debase himself anymore by setting up an invitation that would not be accepted. Furthermore, he knew Beelzebub Prince. They were like lightning. They had never struck the same place twice. It was always a new gallery or museum, always a new artist. They spanned art movements and continents. For them, there was no such thing as habit. So why did he think he could ever be the exception?

He would leave the doors open for one more night.

Before he went to sleep, he did what he had come to do every night (and every morning and every afternoon) and opened his bedside drawer. In it was his gun, wrapped in the silk handkerchief. Next to it was Beelzebub’s knife. He caressed the handle with his thumb, thought about how at one time, that handle had been flush with Beelzebub’s skin, warm with the heat of them. 

With great reluctance, he gently closed the drawer and turned on the television, another habit he had picked up since that night in his attempt to recreate it. A black and white movie with the sound down low. He turned the light off, and reflected that in this quiet moment, it was like it had been in the hours before Beelzebub’s arrival. That was a soothing thought, though he didn’t know if it was because he could feel like it had never happened, or if he knew they would be coming for him soon after.

He was starting to become accustomed to the dichotomy of this desire. This ricochet between wanting them so much his bones ached and hating himself for having engaged with it at all. He did wonder how long he could tolerate the extremes. He doubted he knew how to settle in the middle anymore, and he was exhausted. With each passing day, he skirted around the cracks that had formed, hoping that he wouldn’t break.

With that grim thought, he settled back against his pillows, pulled the duvet up around his neck, and settled into another fitful sleep.

It was the warmth and the weight across his hips that stirred him. He’d had a cat years ago, in Maryland with his ex, and he could remember the tactile sensation of its small, nimble body walking across the comforter as he slept. This felt almost like that. Except, of course, that he didn’t have a cat anymore. He opened his eyes, and there they were.

Beelzebub’s thighs on either side of his hips, knees creating gentle dips in the duvet. The soft, flickering light from the TV made their features appear and disappear. Their expression was unplaceable. Brows and lips in a straight line, eyes focused on his face.

It took him a moment to register that it was not a dream - that it wasn’t his subconscious that had brought them here. But then he wondered, what  _ had _ brought them here?

Had he been further from sleep he might have cried out at that moment, but instead he channeled his energy into doing what he should have done the first time. 

With a violent efficiency, he grabbed their shoulders and flipped them onto their back. They landed in the empty space in the bed next to where he had been sleeping. He could hear the air rush out of them and saw the surprise in their light blue eyes as he pinned them down. His leg crossed theirs to hold them in place and the wince that crossed their face was unpracticed and true. He looked down at them and swallowed. His heart was hammering so hard he thought it might crack his chest open.

“So,” Beelzebub started, breathless and grimacing. “Not happy to see me then?”

He was a joke to them. Taunting him even now when it would’ve been so easy to press a pillow over their face, to end this once and for all. With his hands pressed into their body, he had full clarity of thought for the first time in two months.

Regardless of what had happened, he would do this the right way this time. He would call for support, he would admit to the earlier encounter (leaving some of the finer details aside). The Met would bring Prince in for breaking and entering, for assault, for attempted murder (they had had that knife). Then, maybe, he’d get some rest.

“Shit,” he whispered, realizing he’d left his phone in the kitchen. Knowing he shouldn’t and doing it anyway, he looked over his shoulder at the door, wondering if it would be difficult to hold onto them while he retrieved it.

All possible plans came crashing down when he felt the tip of something cold, and metal, and incredibly sharp come to his abdomen, and make itself known with the slightest pressure. There was only one thing it could be.

Slowly, with a laboured breath, he turned back to them, and they were smiling. Every hair on his body stood on end. He had not checked them for weapons. He had not followed protocol nor done this right. Maybe, subconsciously, he’d meant it to go this way all along.

“Thank you for keeping this safe for me, Detective,” Beelzebub purred. “And you kept it in your bedside table too, beside your treasure, wrapped up in pretty fabric. How touching.”

He glanced over at the bedside drawer, left open. Gaping. His mind raced to figure out how they could have possibly known it was there. Had they been in his apartment long before he’d woken up? 

“You know,” they mused, bringing his attention back to them. “I’ve never really understood Americans’ silly little obsession with guns. Thought you’d be better than that, honestly.”

He wondered if after this speech, they would kill him, gut him here in his own bed. What other reason did they have to come back to him?

“I just don’t get why you’d hang on to that awful thing. Especially when there are other more effective methods to get the point across.”

Like the point of their knife, he thought.

Up until that moment their voice had been preternaturally calm, as if a man twice their size wasn’t looming over them, didn’t have their freedom in his hands. Now it sunk into even a lower register. Some facade was slipping. The aristocratic accent he knew they had been born with surfaced more than he’d ever heard before. “How about you take your hand off my chest?”

With the knife against him, he lifted his hand off their chest, and as a second measure, took his leg off of theirs. He was certain that would be the next request anyway. He started to back off onto his heels, his hands held up. He had no plan.

“No, no,” said Beelzebub, gesturing with their head to the spot he’d been sleeping. “On your back.”

His eyes bore into theirs for a few long seconds, then without knowing why, he complied. The two of them moved around one another, a careful dance with the tip of the knife hovering between two ribs, a place that could puncture his lung if they decided they were done with him. They weren’t yet, he could see, in their focus and careful movements. He laid back on the bed, his head centred on the pillow, as they settled themself back across his waist.

They studied him, and he studied them. His hands twitched minutely on the sheets, unsure if there was anything else he should do. He realized, with a sick twisting in his gut that he was getting increasingly used to, that he wanted to touch them, run his hands down their thighs that bracketed him. He wanted to feel their muscles tighten and release. All this, while the knife was still pointed into his breast.

“None of your pals came after me,” they said, matter of fact. “You didn’t tell them, did you? You didn’t tell them anything.”

“No,” he answered. He had long suspected that Beelzebub had someone from their network inside the Met. This confirmed it. A mole would’ve known if he talked, would’ve passed that intel on.

“You don’t kiss and tell. What a gentleman.” Beelzebub’s other hand had come down to settle on his stomach. It was cold but he didn’t flinch at the sensation. He wanted both their hands.

“Did you miss me?” they asked darkly, and they drew the knife away an inch.

He took a breath and swallowed his answer.  _ Yes, I have. _

They tilted their head towards the open balcony doors. “Was that for me? It feels like it might’ve been.” Then, as an afterthought, they murmured, “S’cold in here.”

_ Kiss me, _ he thought, and he must have shown it on his face. 

Beelzebub dragged the flat of their knife across his belly. They smiled at him, and if he hadn’t already been entirely at their mercy, it would have disarmed him. It was almost sweet. It was almost kind. They pulled the knife off him entirely and held it in front of their chest. “I don’t need this, do I?”

Before he could stop himself he shook his head. It was barely a movement, but it was there. For a brief and beautiful moment, he could see their face entirely, lit up by the television. No casual observer would have called Beelzebub Prince beautiful, but no other word came to Gabriel’s mind then. The curve of their cheeks, those eyes, that small mouth. 

With nimble hands they slipped the blade closed, into the handle. Then, they placed it gently back in his bedside drawer and closed it. Like the knife belonged to him.

When they looked back at him, something had changed. Some of their showmanship had melted away and it was like that first time, when he had smelled their shampoo. They were a person who he could know, did know.

“We both know why I’m here,” they said. Both their hands were on his chest now, laid flat and still. They could feel the pace of his breathing, and must be able to feel how it was picking up. His stiffening cock began to press against the crux of their thighs.

They gasped the smallest gasp as they felt it, their eyes on his. Then they leaned down and he thought they might kiss him, but instead, they let their parted lips graze along his cheek to his ear. “I missed you too, Detective.”

His whole self shuddered at those whispered words, the brush of hot air over his neck. His hands rose to finally press into their body, but they were rising, climbing off of him. Gabriel reached for them without thinking.

“Stay,” they said, without looking at him and he stopped at their command. He hadn’t the dignity left to feel embarrassed about it. Not the reaching, the stopping, not the way his heart hammered in his chest for them.

Beelzebub crossed the room, and he watched them close the balcony doors, pushing on them to ensure they were shut properly. The street sounds were abruptly muffled. The room felt too quiet, yet the dialogue from the movie on the television was too loud. He wanted to turn it off. He couldn’t move. 

They turned back to him, seemingly taking him in a moment, before they took a deep breath. “I just thought we should do this properly,” they said, their voice slicing through the room like the knife they’d just held. They took one step towards him, then pulled their shirt over their head.

They abandoned the dark long-sleeved shirt to the floor. Hooking their fingers under the waist of their trousers, they pushed them down, revealing their thin legs. In the television’s glow their white skin seemed almost blue. 

His chest was getting tighter. He was worried he would stop breathing.

They stepped out of their trousers, gently kicking them to the side. He could see now, dark flushes on their arms and legs around their knees and elbows. Around their belly button too, across their taut stomach. Birthmarks, maybe. He couldn’t tell in the light. Their eyes never left his for more than a split second. They were waiting, he realized, for him to register disgust. Instead, all they could see was his flayed open desire.

Quickly, they removed the bra they had on, peeling it over their shoulders so he could see their dark nipples, hard in the cool air. Finally, they slid off their underwear and socks. He registered then that they weren’t wearing shoes, but he didn’t have time to dwell. He struggled to make out their features when the only lightsource was the television. He could discern the slight curve of their hip, the dark curled thatch of hair between their legs. He stayed as they had told him, but the pull he felt towards them was magnetic, primal, something beyond his explanation or control.

They came back to him, and barely breaking eye contact, they curled their fingers under the waistband of his boxers and slid them down mid-thigh. Then with no hesitation, they were swinging their leg over his waist and assuming their position once more. His cock ached, and rested on his stomach.

Their small hand reached down and held it, cupped it, and he gasped as they slid their cunt, slick and hot and everything he remembered it to be, over his cock.

Beelzebub bit their lip and again he ached to kiss them. He could remember what they tasted like and he wanted it again. They rutted against him, making a low, quiet moan in the back of their throat.

Just when he thought he was getting used to the pressure and the slick friction, Beelzebub lifted up their hips, then leaned forward and over him. They were reaching for his bedside table. The only part of him that was the least bit lucid wondered if they were retrieving their knife, but they didn’t. They turned on his bedside lamp.

It wasn’t a strong light, just a low wattage bulb that cast out a warm luminescence. In their position he could see their illuminated shoulders, the hollow at the base of their throat, small breasts hanging over him.

He was distracted by the thought of taking one of their plum-coloured nipples in his mouth when they began, without ceremony, to push his cock inside them. It was quick, barely more than a few seconds before they’d taken all of him in their tight cunt.

“Jesus,” he hissed and his hands flew to his face, covering it. He couldn’t breathe, could barely feel anything except how hot they were, how fully they held him. And the sickness coiled in his belly again. It was not once; it was twice. It was not a mistake; it was a choice. The knife had been barely a threat. Beelzebub was weak, he knew that. It would have been no effort to grab their wrist, peel the knife out from between their fingers. The knife wasn’t a real threat, but he had pretended it was, because he chose this.

Small hands came to wrap around his wrists, and pull his hands away from his eyes. He kept his eyes closed, not ready to see or fully accept where he was. Their nails dug into his skin.

“Look at me,” they said. It was supposed to be a demand, but it sounded like a plea.

He opened his eyes to look up to them and they dropped his wrists immediately. Their hands came back to his chest, fingers splayed wide, and they began to ride him. Even when their head tipped back in what might have been pleasure, they never took their eyes off him.

For the first time, like this, he could see them properly. The marks on their skin weren’t birthmarks at all, but some sort of condition, a raised, almost scaled rash. Perhaps he had felt it the first time, as his hand had splayed against their stomach. He’d been too far gone. He couldn’t remember. His hands floated in air now, unable to move them, unable to do anything but take what they were giving him.

“Touch me,” Beelzebub said, more confident now, but still pleading. He did automatically, without thinking. His hands dropped to their spread and shifting thighs and he lightly grasped them, the gentle dip in their flesh reminding him of a marble sculpture. 

Beelzebub keened, their face both pleasure and pain as they moved at a punishing pace on his cock. It was a fight to keep his eyes open as they had told him, to not lose himself in how  _ right _ they felt.

Their hips snapped back and forth, and he let his hand drift to the crease between their hip and their thigh. His thumb caressed the coarse hair there, then slid down to where he knew their clit was. “I want…” he whispered.

“Yes,” they breathed out, encouraging him further. Then, as he found what he wanted, what they wanted, “Gabriel, yes!”

It wasn’t long until they spasmed around him and Beelzebub was crying out, open, guttural. They looked away from him then, stared up at the ceiling as they rode it out, their nails still digging into his chest. In lieu of their eyes, he looked at the tender place under their jaw where their heart beat was close to the surface.

When their face dropped down to look at him again, it was as if they had been replaced. The person that had told him to look at them (to see them) and to touch them (to hold them) was no longer there. Their eyes were sharper and their lips were set into a determined line. Though they had climaxed, they didn’t stop their movements.

“Come on, Detective,” they said to him, even and steady, knowing he held on to this moment by just a thread. Their voice lowered into a harsh whisper. “I know you want to. Show me how much you want it.”

They came down on him hard and drew their nails down his chest, breaking the skin. 

The only word he could find was their name, and he said it, desperately, as he came.

They cooed at him as his face twisted into a grimace with the effort of it.  _ No _ , he wanted to say, _ no, no, not again, how could this happen again _ , but instead he kept saying their name.

Gabriel’s body went hot and then freezing cold as his softening cock slipped out of them. He took his hands off their hips and found himself gripping the sheets. He was panting heavily, and felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. The places where Beelzebub’s nails had torn at his skin burned. 

He felt as if he’d been under some sort of spell, as if they had bewitched him with their eyes and a talisman in the form of a knife. He was still under it, his full consciousness fighting to surface under the weight of it.

Their eyes back on him, they brought their hands down between their legs and touched themself. When they brought their hand away their fingers glistened, wet with come.

They held their fingers in front of their lips, then brushed the wetness across them. “You have,” they muttered, their voice cracking, “such little restraint.”

He did not know, then, which version of them was real. The stripped down vulnerability of the person who had said his name, or the coldly calculating villain who taunted him mere moments after he had been inside them. It seemed impossible that they were the same person, but then wasn’t he two people? The man who was repulsed by Beelzebub Prince and everything they stood for, and the man who was so in love with them he was useless to anything else. No person could hold both those things and yet he did. Yet, they did.

Beelzebub leaned forward, and as he had wished for, they kissed him. He tasted himself, sharp and musky on their lips and let them press their tongue into his mouth. He noticed that their eyes were half open, as were his. He was disgusted.

He was soaring.

As quickly as they had started, they pulled back, staring into his face. Which version of them was this, he wondered. Who was looking into his eyes now? They smoothed a gentle hand over his forehead, then his hair, and he was startled by the tenderness of it, how fond it felt. They could never be the same for more than a second, could never let him settle.

Their hand came to rest on his cheek and he felt a tear slip down the side of his face. He could not conceal himself here, with them so close, their hands on him now.

“I didn’t think it would be this easy,” they murmured in awe.

Gabriel wanted to ask what exactly had been so easy, but he had been rendered mute.

They took one last steady look at him, then dismounted. They rapidly dressed, giving off the effect of efficiency, and not panic. With his face turned to the side he watched them. He hadn’t the strength in that moment to even push himself up on his elbows.

Beelzebub turned to him one last time and said, irreverently, “We have to stop meeting like this.” They left through his bedroom door, not the window as he had anticipated. The shocking normalcy of their leaving finally made him move, and he came up on one arm, one hand grasping for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them up clumsily.

He heard the front door to his apartment unlock and then open. But then, the next sound made his throat constrict and the room go cold. The deadbolt clunked into the lock again.

They had a key. They had a key to his fucking apartment. How long had they had his fucking key and how often had they used it? How many times had they stood in this room without him? Which of his things had they touched?

Why had they waited so long to show themself to him again?

Lightning did not strike twice, but Beelzebub Prince wasn’t lightning. They were a hurricane, and he had no idea of how to get out of their path.

**Author's Note:**

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